


Three Times Isaac Mendez Got High

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Artists, Drug Addiction, Drugs, F/M, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-15
Updated: 2008-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The feeling of flying, of invulnerability, of freedom.  All the things you never thought you could have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Isaac Mendez Got High

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://yumemiru-kikai.livejournal.com/16561.html)

Isaac was eighteen, and he had just sold his first cover.

It was some obscure Dark Horse mini-series, a one off by an unknown writer. Maybe ten people would read it, but it didn't matter. He was going to be published; would be able to walk into any comics store in the country and see his painting, his work shining back at him from the shelf.

His heart raced, pulse pounding in excitement and anticipation. His hands shook as he hung up the phone, practically sprinting into the living room to tell his mother and sisters the good news. His mother had started crying, and he picked her up, spinning her around joyfully until she was laughing as hard as he was. The little girls had demanded turns, too, singing “Isaac’s famous! Isaac’s famous!” until the whole house was filled with laughter and love.

When Isaac got another call five months later, asking him to move to New York City and work freelance on a project for DC, it was almost as exhilarating.

\-----

He was twenty-five and starting to give up on life. He hadn't sold a painting in months, and what was supposed to be the latest issue of 9th Wonders sat on the lightboard, half-finished and gathering dust. There was a small gallery that would be showing his work in a few days, and he supposed he should scrape up the will to go see it, but lately it was just so hard to make an effort.

He locked up the loft and headed out into the chill air. This city may be grinding him down to dust, but at least there was always something to do. He let his footsteps carry him deeper into Alphabet City, knowing the area was rough, but beyond caring. He felt more than a little rough himself.

Later, when he tried to remember this night, the details always changed. The man approached him, he approached the man, it was a slick sales pitch, it was a silent transaction... The exact setup eluded him.

But the moment flame hit foil and he inhaled, he was flying. He was free. And every thing that had been bothering him, the rent, the deadlines, the crushing feeling of failure; it all melted away just like the drug.

When he went back to the loft, much later that night, he finished the comic, two original paintings, and a pitch for a new set of stories. It was miraculous. He was unstoppable.

And every single time after that, when he smoked or shot up or tore apart his loft looking for something to hock or some stash he'd forgotten, he was just trying to recapture that first time. That night when he was invincible.

\-----

This gallery was small, walls at odd angles to each other and the floor not by design, but by old age and poor maintenance. It didn't even have a bathroom, for Christ's sake.

Isaac kept that last in mind as he nursed his beer. It had been a decent turn out, he supposed, considering maybe ten people could fit in this damn place at a time. None of them would buy, of course, but he held out hope that one of the industry professionals that had stopped by to shake his hand and take his card would actually call him; maybe want him to do a cover or something.

“How much?”

He looked up at the question and his breath caught in his throat. The woman (could you call her a woman? She was a _goddess._ ) was stunning, all shades of chocolate and gold, the poise and presence of a lioness in the hunt.

She laughed then, and it was magical, like champagne bubbles in his blood.

“Hello? Mr. Mendez?” She waved her elegant hand in front of his face, teasingly, and he shook his head to clear it.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, and she smiled curiously.

“How much for the painting? The woman in white.”

Isaac smiled beatifically. “For you? Take it, please. I insist.”

She flushed then, long eyelashes fluttering down briefly before fixing him with a brilliant golden gaze.

“I’m sure my client would appreciate that, but I have to pay you something.”

Five hundred seemed reasonable, and she took out her checkbook without hesitation. When she handed him the check, her fingertips barely brushed his, and it was like electricity, like touching a live wire he never wanted to let go of.

She must’ve felt it, too, for her hand lingered a touch too long. “I – I’m Simone. Simone Deveaux.”

Just the memory of that encounter, that brief touch was enough to fuel him for the next week. She inhabited his every thought; inspired him in a way he hadn’t known was possible.

When she called him a week after that, strangely shy, to ask if he might like to have dinner with her that Friday, he knew instantly that the answer was yes; for Friday night, and every night after.

The rush of the needle was nothing, insignificant, compared to the thought of Simone.


End file.
